


Hand In Unlovable Hand

by xoxoMouse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Angst, Canon Compliant, Catharsis, Dean Winchester HATES himself get this man some THERAPY, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Edgy, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform, Whump, endverse deancas, endverse destiel, human endverse castiel, idk what else to tag this, just a warning, listen this does not end nicely this is the most toxic shit I've ever written, no actual violence but Dean does go into detail the ways he's imagined killing Cas, so...actual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27799489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xoxoMouse/pseuds/xoxoMouse
Summary: The last part of him that loved him said tonight was the night. That he’d waited too long already and he needed to get it over with before something else did it for him, something that wouldn’t make it fast and painless like Dean would.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Endverse Castiel/Endverse Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	Hand In Unlovable Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Hey this doesn't end happy. This was written as an angst catharsis for myself and if Dean detailing ways he's imagined killing Cas would upset or trigger you I encourage you to click off. Take care <3

Dean hated Cas almost as much as he hated himself. He’d always hated him; he hated him almost as much as he loved him. He wasn’t able to love things anymore, but Cas was a relic from a bygone era of Dean’s life. Back before the virus, back before Sam said yes, back before Dean started praying, and long before he’d given it up. If Dean had been able to love anything through this shitstorm, it would have been Cas. And in a way he did. In his own fucked up, poisonous little way, he still loved him.

There were times he’d stare at the wall in their room in the perfect, silent darkness when it wouldn’t have made any difference if he’d closed his eyes. He didn’t blink, even when his eyes stung. Sometimes on nights like those he could remember what it was like to love Cas more than he hated him, to have loved him so much everything else almost melted away. He could remember nights where their legs slotted together and his face buried in his scruffy black hair was enough to drown out everything else until he was just in love. Nights like these were almost reminiscent enough of nights like those. Almost. Then he smelled the nicotine and weed in his hair and felt the tremors in his hands as he tried to hold them steady. Cas shook all over if he didn’t take something; he couldn’t even make it through the night anymore. In a couple of minutes, he'd be sweating through the sheets. Dean saved himself the trouble of laundry and shook him awake, pushing his flask and newest pill concoction into his hands before Cas could even realize he needed them. 

Cas hummed his thanks and laid a clammy palm on the small of Dean’s back. He gritted his teeth. He could get up, shake him off, go pace around the compound. Hell, he could even pin his arms above his head and take him for another round to blow off the steam, Cas would just be happy to be there—but none of it would keep him from wanting to crawl out of his skin. So he laid there until Cas’s breathing evened out and the only shaking left were his fingers twitching against Dean’s skin.

The last part of him that loved him said tonight was the night. That he’d waited too long already and he needed to get it over with before something else did it for him, something that wouldn’t make it fast and painless like Dean would.

He could strangle him. Palm on his windpipe, fingers on his jugular, just enough pressure to do the job. A pillow over his face if he couldn’t bear to have those baby blues go dead watching him do it. A hand on either of his cheeks and a quick jerk if he was feeling especially kind—too sentimental to get up to his elbows in it but still loving him enough to end it for him all the same. 

Cas wouldn’t fight him. He knew it was coming sooner or later. All that was left to be determined was which of Cas’ vices would get him first: The drugs or his lover.

Dean had gotten close before. A gun to Cas’s temple, a knife set to plunge between his ribs—he'd leaned into it every time, ready for whatever Dean decided to give him. That’s what always stopped him. Every time he laid a palm on Cas’s throat he felt twitching fingers on his forearm, on his wrist, not to pull him away or egg him on, just there. Just to hold onto him no matter what he chose. 

When Cas drowned himself in booze and sex and pills Dean could stand to be around him. Cas was almost his own person then, almost smart, just a man giving in to his desires. But that’s what fucked with Dean even more: No matter what, Cas always chose to turn back to him. They’d fought tooth and nail for free will, they’ given everything for it and suffered every moment since. And what was Cas doing with it?

He was loving him. At every turn Cas was loyal to him, devoted to him, he knew exactly when he needed to be told to calm the fuck down and shut up for once. He knew when he needed to get so lost in something he could forget for a little while and offered himself up willingly every time. Cas knew every atom of his being and every memory inside his head.

He let his stinging eyes fall shut and pulled Cas close. He responded even in a drug-induced sleep, reaching for him and holding onto him with everything he had. Dean knew his fingers were twitching against his skin even if he was too numb to feel it. 

Cas would live to see the morning yet again. Not because Dean was compassionate, more because he was cruel. Any last shred of respect for Cas he had left was snubbed out when he remembered how much Cas loved him. He’d given everything for him; he’d stood by him through his worst, through the apocalypse, when if anyone deserved to be left for dead and given up on it was him. It made him sick. It made him hate himself even more. He’d done this to Cas. Then he remembered Cas had let it happen; he’d leaned into it. He always did.

Dean loved him. He loved him more than anything else in their gone-to-shit  hellworld —not that that was saying much. But he hated him, too. What other choice did he have but to hate him?

Anyone neurotic enough to love Dean Winchester deserved what was coming to them.


End file.
